Hard-Boiled Eggs Again

Easter informally signals spring. It is a holiday that embraces new life not only in a spiritual sense, but with outward physical signs as well, things that can be seen and touched. We can feel green grass under our feet; see tulips and daffodils pushing up through the moist earth. It is exciting to buy new clothes, something bright and cheerful, even though it is normally too cold to shed our warm coats. Little baby bunnies with twitchy noses and fuzzy yellow chicks are symbols of the newness of life that have come to be associated with spring and Easter.

But perhaps even more universally celebrated is the egg. I ate too many big sugar eggs with some sort of marshmallow-crème centers when I was a hungry little girl once. That particular kind has not been attractive to me since my bad experience. My preferences have turned mostly to chocolate. Crunchy Cadbury Mini Eggs are tops on my list of favorites, although the eggs with a thick chocolate shell, filled with syrupy fluid and a yolky glob floating in the center is a confectionary meal. I would never turn down a malted milk egg, or anything oval shaped made from chocolate, caramel and pecans.

The most common Easter treat however, remains the hard-boiled chicken egg. They have to be decorated, of course, that is part of the ritual. I tried to convince my children that a wire dipper and a cup of homemade dye was the simplest way to make the eggs pretty. They were content with that method for a while, drawing designs with wax crayons and wrapping rubber bands around the eggs to make them striped. Then they discovered wrap an egg, swirl an egg, and splatter an egg. They sponge painted some, applied stickers to others and sprinkled glitter on a few too.

There are so many creative ways to decorate eggs. In order to try them all, we had to boil a lot of them. Although that little cholesterol module is packed with protein and low in calories, peeling colored eggs for lunch gets old in a couple of weeks. Potato salad isn’t very appealing with remnants of blue, purple and green egg whites mixed in. That is why mothers with creative children continue to appreciate fresh ideas for serving hard boiled eggs again.

By Patsy Bronner

A Place to Hang Your Boots

What do you see when you drive down the road? My husband gazes at the fields, wondering aloud from time to time about the productivity and the rocks and the livestock that occupy the fenced-in areas. He takes note of shredded corn leaves that might indicate a recent hailstorm, bean stubble that wasn’t cut short enough or yellow streaks of chemical damage on foliage. It makes me nervous when he farms while driving; it diminishes the skills necessary to operate a motor vehicle.

I confess that I don’t always concentrate solely on driving when I am behind the wheel. But we often see different things. I tire of calculating crop yields from the car window, and begin to search for something different. I’ve noticed artistically stacked rocks and the occasional rock on top of a wooden fencepost. Then I’m led to speculate about the reason for its placement there. Maybe the farmer just wanted it up out of the way. They might be coming back to get it. It might be needed in a rock garden or a stone wall or a pathway. Or perhaps it was put there for admiration on a makeshift pedestal. It might possess rare qualities of color and texture, or have the ability to sparkle in the sun. A stone on top of a post might be the result of a weight lifting competition among the rock-picking crew to see who was the strongest.

There is another thing that I have seen on top of fence posts. Work boots. I noticed several inverted leather shoes on either side of a farm driveway quite some time ago. They appeared to be worn-out high-top lace-up work shoes that farmers commonly wear. There was no billboard indicating any business reason for the collection. No shoe factory was located there nor any advertisement for shoe sales or exchange. The mailbox didn’t hint of any unusual surname such as Sam Shoemaker or Michael Boots. So I was left once again contemplating the intentions of the unique display.

Are they nesting places for birds or shelters for beneficial insects? Maybe they protect the iron posts from sun and rain. The growing number of work boots on the posts there must be a statement. Do they prove how hard the family has worked by how many shoes they have worn holes in? Does the display mean that the farmer wants to give the world a boot, or that we need to keep on walking, moving forward? Could it be a boot endurance testing site to see how long it takes for a leather shoe to deteriorate when exposed to the elements day after day? There is a possibility that it is some kind of artistic _expression. It might be a joke or an invitation to hang your own work boots there. It’s their fence and they can hang old shoes on the top of the posts if they want to. Maybe the intent is simply to perplex inquisitive motorists like me.

By Patsy Bronner

A Time to Sew

Everything has a season. I think winter is a time to sew. I steal time for this obsessive hobby. It isn’t profitable. Clothes can be purchased for less than the cost of patterns and fabric. Blankets and bed-coverings, even some that are hand-pieced, can be ordered from a catalog or bought at a discount store. They are beautiful, reasonable and easy to find. But there is something very rewarding about constructing and creating.

I can’t wait to dig in my fabric remnants, visualizing how they might take shape into something useful. Looking through my collection of patterns inspires me. Soon the ironing board has a prominent position in the living room. Stacks of fat-quarters and raggedy ends of material splay out across the carpet. The rotary cutter and plastic rulers occupy the dining room table beside my trusty old sewing machine. Boxes of pins, the seam ripper, bobbins and spools lay on the window sill, close at hand. While dinner is cooking I’m cutting another piece, stitching another seam.

The excitement builds. Squares of colorful cloth form designs which I lay on the floor to arrange. I invite input; how can I ignore constructive criticism from people who must step carefully around my project to turn on the TV or get to the couch? They might need to move a partially assembled garment draped over the arm of the recliner to make room to sit down.

Putting all these things away would not be productive. Getting it all out again would require too much time. Consolidating it into one corner is absolutely too restrictive. Moving it all out of the main living area would be too reclusive. Sewing isn’t something you can do all alone in a private area; it has to be integrated into the fiber of everyday activities. Cut a piece, answer the phone. Sew a seam, check the markets. Study the assembly instructions while stirring the soup. Hand stitch while watching the evening news.

Spring will soon be here. It will be time to tidy up the sewing rooms, which by now is nearly every room in the house. A few projects will be finished; a few will have to be put away until the next sewing season. As the weather changes, priorities shift and any extra energy I have needs to be directed towards other activities. It will be time to prepare for new baby calves and get ready to work the fields, because spring is a time to sow --- to sow seeds.

By Patsy Bronner

A Parenting Landmark

This week my youngest child turns twenty-one. It is a parenting landmark, a survival story with many chapters. I feel fortunate to be here to celebrate the special day with my daughter. There are many memories.

There were a few frightening moments. The potentially fatal pig stampede took place when trying to round up a group of wild swine. They judged the smallest child to be the weakest link in the herding line and they totally flattened the mortified girl, face down in soupy hog manure. Luckily none of it was aspirated into her lungs and the puffy snowsuit she was wearing saved her from any major physical trauma. Helping us corral an evasive cow one day she was partially hurled, but somewhat under her own power, draped upside down over a gate. The cow escaped capture and my little girl miraculously suffered no injuries. Several 4-wheeler events and a car in the ditch on a snowy morning caused some apprehensive moments, and possibly a few more things that a parent may never hear about.

The good times have been many. I’m sure her list is different than mine. She would probably list the birthday parties and trips we took together as a family among her favorite activities. The moments I treasure are the everyday happenings. Evenings in the barn feeding sows with a little plastic bucket and scoop, playing with baby pigs and torturing cats were daily occurrences. Watching her and her sister tromping through mud puddles, climbing in the apple trees, collecting big icicles from the roof edges of various buildings and mastering the knee board down those monster snow piles around the yard were a pleasure to me. Checking the pastures with the 4-wheeler, riding on top of towering loads of square bales, and reading library books in the combine cab provided lots of bonding. I loved to listen to her play that silly sliding song on her trombone. I enjoyed teaching her to sew, though I think she hated it.

I can’t believe it is twenty-one years since the day she was born. It doesn’t seem like that much time has passed. Wasn’t it only a couple of years ago that I watched her get on that big yellow bus to go to school? Didn’t she just take the keys for her first solo drive in the car? Suddenly she’s sending us receipts for tax preparation and worrying about finances.

There are moments when I’d like to reclaim those years. I contemplate baking a cake, covering it with chocolate pudding and setting it in front of her like we did on her first birthday. But most of the time I am grateful that she is grown up, independent and eager to accomplish the goals she has set for herself. What I hate most about her growing older is the inevitable fact that I too have done the same.

By Patsy Bronner

Come in With the Milk, Come in With the Milk

February 13, 2005

This might only happen in a small theater in Harmony, Minnesota. Before the feature film began, the manager announced that the movie was rather long, continued on with the observation that there were some children present in the audience that might become restless, and finished with an offer to supervise youngsters in the lobby so that the adults in their party didn’t have to miss any of the show. It made me uneasy; I wondered just how long it was going to be. Long could indicate slow-moving. My expectations were set pretty high, since “The Aviator” had received eleven Academy Award Nominations and won three Golden Globe Awards for best picture of the year. I was pretty sure I’d set myself up for major disappointment, but since we had already purchased tickets, selected choice seats for viewing, and had our greasy fingers in a tub of warm buttered popcorn, we stayed.

My recollection of Howard Hughes was vague. I could only remember that he was rich and eccentric. As the story began to reveal details of the billionaire’s life, I wondered how much of it was true. Finding out that Katherine Hepburn was one of the many temporary companions of the psychotic Mr. Hughes was a crushing blow. My image of the raspy-throated actress was that of a distinguished and sophisticated lady.

It wasn’t too hard to believe that he designed and built streamlined airplanes that broke the speed records, but I did question his practice of test-flying them personally. A fiery crash scene had to have been a stretch of the truth, for it would be miraculous to live through such an accident and recover in an era deplete of modern medical advances.

I don’t know how a man with those grave physical injuries could pull himself out of a severe obsessive compulsive germ phobia episode to testify articulately at a Congressional hearing that exposed corrupt assignment of government contracts. That seemed a little far-fetched to me.

It was a long show, and even though it was late when I got home, I couldn’t wait to read about the real Howard Hughes. Surprisingly, the almost unbelievable tale was quite accurate. Small details about his preoccupation with milk and the glass bottles it came in were not overlooked. Though historically correct, the portrayal was far from a documentary. With such a spectacular and traumatic true life story, very little exaggeration is necessary. I agree with Ebert and Roeper on this one. Two thumbs up.

By Patsy Bronner

Spring Cleaning Begins

February 6, 2005

I’ve read about it in fairy tales and women’s magazines. It appears to be a project that has some origin in the seasonal traditions of an organized and rhythmic household, kind of like the mythical schedule of yesteryear’s domestic engineers that did baking on Monday, laundry on Friday and ironing on Saturday. I’ve seen collector’s kitchen towels with those very words and coordinating scenes embroidered on them. I’ve always wondered if a set of seven towels implied that a well-managed home used one dishtowel per day. Having never mastered such an orderly lifestyle, I don’t even attempt to plan a day for laundry or shopping. It would be far too much to imagine that an entire block of days be set aside for the sole purpose of cleaning.

My house cleaning schedule fits in around other activities of higher priority. I washed one kitchen window when the temperature crept above freezing last week. It was the first warm day of several. Why did I worry? There was lots of time for window washing. All of the glass on several tractors was crystal clear, at least for a few hours. And floors, yes, we cleaned floors for three days in a row. They were really a mess, with months of winter accumulation; it was great to get them cleared off. The cattle liked it too. They seemed to appreciate dry concrete and a fresh bale of straw to lounge on.

The balmy temperatures provided an opportunity to open up the door and a couple of windows, toss out the soiled bedding, and freshen up the chicken house. The hens were a bit upset at the skid loader pushing through the center of their living quarters, causing a temporary lag in egg production. It was perfect weather for rearranging too. The couch and the TV and the piano always stay in the same place. But the grain truck and the combine and a bunch of other implements have to be moved around. Their engines need to be started on warm days. They have to be re-positioned to allow access to the round bales embedded in the depths of the pole shed.

There are so many things to tidy up when spring-like weather arrives. The last hard clumps of packed snow and ice need to be chiseled off the sidewalk. The sloping approach to the grain bins and feed grinding area have to be cleared. Water from melting ice and snow has to be pumped out of the grain leg pit.

I might get a few more windows washed, and maybe I’ll clean a floor or two. There is an outside chance I will get some housecleaning done too.

By Patsy Bronner

Fifty Pounds of Satin

January 30, 2005

I really had no interest at all in the big social event of the year, Donald Trump’s third wedding. I was not impressed by the twelve-carat, 1.5 million dollar diamond engagement ring, or the priceless Fred Leighton jewelry that Melania Knauss borrowed for the big day. My mouth did not water when I heard about the five-foot-high Grand Marnier chiffon layer cake with 3000 white roses embedded in the buttercream frosting. Let’s not forget the 18,000 square foot ballroom at Mar-a-Lago in Palm Beach, Florida, with 17 crystal chandeliers, 24-carat gold-leaf moldings and marble floor, which was the setting for the reception on the Trump estate. I did not try to visualize what blue La Perla underpinnings might look like, but when descriptions of the wedding dress began to surface, I took notice.

It might have been the 98 yards (the length of a football field) of white satin that intrigued me, or the 28 seamstresses that spent 1000 hours stitching and hand-embroidering 1500 crystal rhinestones in place, or the sixteen feet of dress that gracefully trailed on the floor behind the bride. Estimates on the cost of the garment were from $100,000 to $200,000. I wasn’t surprised at any of this, but what did get my attention was the fact that the voluminous gown designed by Christian Dior for the Slovenian supermodel weighed over 50 pounds. That would be the equivalent of two five-gallon pails of shelled corn. Making my way across the yard with the weight of the feed pails pulling down on my shoulders, I wondered how Melania was going to make it through such an elaborate celebration without fainting from exhaustion.

Perhaps the reason I was so interested in the dress itself was because those details were a little bit hard to believe. I made my own wedding dress a number of years ago. It was satin and lace with a big ruffle at the bottom and a little train that touched the floor behind the heels of my shoes. The material cost a total of forty dollars, probably two to three hundred at today’s prices. I remember being afraid to cut into the most expensive fabric I’d ever worked with. I have constructed nearly a dozen special occasion dresses since then, with nine yards being the largest amount of fabric required. Nobody thought to weigh the finished product, but I’ll venture a guess that none were heavier than a medium chicken or our big gray tomcat.

I could not resist the temptation to purchase the February issue of Vogue magazine so that I could see “the dress.” It was not as breathtaking as I expected. Maybe my opinion was diminished by the connection it had to “the Donald.” The arrogance and callous authority of the billionaire with the really bad hair does not appeal to me. From the image he projects on television, I don’t understand why anyone would desire to be his apprentice or his wife. It would take a strong person to put up with such a character for a mate, and to drag around a fifty pound dress.

By Patsy Bronner

What are the Odds?

January 15, 2005

Farmers don’t mind going to school on cold winter days when the temperature doesn’t rise above negative two. Feeding the animals before the sun comes up in the morning and the thermometer reads negative 15 degrees provides an abrupt wake-up. But we decided to make that sacrifice so that we could learn some more about marketing and management for our farm operation. It was an opportunity to listen to a couple of experts, one that we see periodically on TV and find her independent views refreshing.

I listened intently as they spoke about different tactics used to maximize profits. There were lots of charts. A wiggly line in a box was not needed to illustrate the seasonal price trends, familiar to tax payers and writers of rent checks. February is not a good month to sell what we produce. Colored bar-graphs and columns of statistics help show what has actually happened, a proven history, the increases and decreases of all sorts of factors in a set time period. They help us to visualize weather patterns or perhaps the bell-shaped curve of opportunity.

We need not be worried about information collection. There are lots of people watching, tracking, and analyzing data of all kinds. We pay them to do it. They study the effects of inflation and the value of the U.S. dollar in the world market. They watch usage and demand, measure the supply on hand, and calculate imports and exports. There are specialists who study the weather in other countries and keep track of the progress of crops grown there. Unemployment rates influence purchasing. Diseases, energy prices, ethanol usage, and even the protein diet craze play a role in the rise and fall of farm prices. The products China is purchasing in preparation for the 2008 Olympics and the supplies they will need as the big event approaches are taken into account when studying price fluctuations.

My small brain could not absorb all the factors that might influence our markets. It is hard to comprehend million metric tonnes or anticipate global carryover. When an expert explains them to me I can see the importance of a gap in the charts, understand a pinch, and identify a dead-cat bounce. But the big question remains: how will it all affect me? There are those that collect a handsome fee for predicting exactly what will take place and when – UNLESS any one thing happens that no one can foresee, like the discovery of a single cow with some strange disease or a shift in the ocean floor. What are the odds of that?

By Patsy Bronner

Murder and Mayhem

January 16, 2005

When she put her hands on my neck and told me I was dead, I just laughed. I mean, gosh, she was my mom. We were involved in a game and it was only a few minutes after the instructions were given. Neither of us had ever taken part in that type of entertainment, so I thought she was merely getting into the spirit of the activity. Even when she questioned me about where the weapons were hidden, I didn’t take her seriously.

She was a careful killer, knocking victims off in dimly lit hallways and strangling them as they lay napping in the fiction section. After the fourth or fifth body was found, my suspicions arose. Mom was pretty pre-occupied, and when she confronted me again, as I was writing a letter at the big oak desk outside the library director’s office, it all became very clear. “Why are you alive?” she asked, “you died in the typing room.” Recounting those first few confusing moments of the library fundraising murder party, I did recall her choking gesture and those lethal words. Slumping quietly onto the half-written manuscript in front of me, I waited for some other patron to find me and report the crime.

I was eventually discovered and taken to the final resting place of the living-impaired, which wasn’t a bad place to spend time. There was a table of luscious treats, crunchy chips and warm cheese dips, appetizers of every sort, and thirst-quenching beverages, as well as the lively company of other dead people. Only the remaining un-dead players could assist with the ongoing investigation to determine who the killer might be. The dead were not allowed to vote, though most of them got a good look at the culprit that did them in.

The lab technician who once took a sample of blood from my arm and the x-ray specialist that has seen parts of me not visible to the human eye were both suspects. A quiet nursing student from out-of-state and a local elementary school teacher were being very evasive. That guy that raises pure-bred sheep west of Lime Springs had a deviously guilty appearance. We were all sure that he did it. Actually, any one of us could have been the murderer. It was stimulating entertainment created by a group of library supporters who did a great job putting it all together. What an amazing job of cooperative, unrehearsed, and spontaneous acting we all did. But it is a tiny bit unsettling to realize how the genuinely honest people we think we know quite well, quickly become cunningly deceptive criminals. I don’t usually associate murder with fun, but it was apparent that everyone was enjoying themselves, both the living and the dead.

By Patsy Bronner

Tinsel and Other Shiny Treachery

January 2, 2005

I wanted to put tinsel on the Christmas tree. It is a time-consuming, pain-staking, meticulous job that is, in my opinion, well worth every minute of the agony of carefully draping each flat metallic strand over the branches uniformly. The tree becomes a precious treasure, a glistening pyramid of diamonds, breathtaking and fragile. But I get lots of resistance from the rest of the residents at my house. They hate the static-charged threads clinging to their socks and dangling over the packages. Resentment builds at the thought of entangled garlands and bits of silver twisted into the ornament hooks. So I left the package of delicate foil ribbons in the bottom of the storage box.

It wasn’t long after Christmas that I got my wish for a shimmering tree. Mother Nature made them all sparkle with a thick coat of freezing rain. Not only did she decorate the tallest pines and the bare branches of oak and elm and cottonwood, but also the long slender grasses and the prickly rose bush shrubs. Intricate clumps of intertwining weeds glittered like glass tumbleweeds on top of the shaven soybean stubble and rusty barbed wire fences gleamed with clear icy shellac. Through no effort of my own, I was treated to a breathtakingly beautiful world of shimmering crystal. But Mother Nature didn’t stop there.

Skating down the polished mirror sidewalk to the glazed gravel driveway, I slid around the barn, making my way to the concrete feed bunks thickly enameled with a layer of glacial high gloss. The rubber lugs of four tractor tires had no more traction than my two deep-treaded boots. Even steel chains strapped tightly to the rear wheels could not bite deep enough into the sheet of ice covering the roadway to maintain control. As the machine glided sideways towards the ditch, I could only gasp and brace myself for the detour down the slick bank, coming to a stop just inches from a huge evergreen tree laden with shiny frozen droplets, absolutely dazzling in the late morning sun.

With more cattle to feed a few miles away, we had to think about a plan of action. I vetoed the proposal to modify a set of old skid loader chains to fit the 4-wheeler. The reasoning behind the idea made sense, but I wasn’t sure that driving a vehicle that was made to drive both on and off the road was the safest solution. I did consent to and assist with adapting a set of chains to fit the back tires of the pickup. We chose the levelest route, took the cell phone, and loaded up some sand and grit for the trip. We proceeded with a great deal of caution, and a renewed sense of how our world can be both beautiful and treacherous at the same time.

By Patsy Bronner

Greetings from View from the Farm

My name is Phil Miller. I am an economist at Minnesota State University, Mankato. I blog regularly at Market Power and at The Sports Economist. The present blog contains the week-t0-week writings of Patsy Bronner, my wife's cousin and farm wife extraordinaire. She writes a column for the local newspaper in her locale, The Cresco (Ia) Times Plains Dealer, in which she details the high points of the most recent week.

Patsy's husband, Brent, is an imposing figure, but a gentle man - trulya gentleman. He "runs" the farm, but as any farmer knows, the farmer's wife is the person who holds it all together. Patsy is the mother of two extremely smart young ladies, both attending the University of Iowa.

Her eldest, Sarah, is in med school at Iowa. I first met her when she was a wee lass of 6 or 7, and I thought her a bit of a smart aleck back then. Now I realize she is just plain smart. Brilliant, one might say. She'd make a good economist. Not that I need any competition. But I digress.

Robin, Patsy's youngest, is a young lady I met when she was 4. Now she's taking the world by storm. OK, she, like most college students, is just trying to do as well as she can (which, I understand, is pretty danged good!).

Each week, Patsy writes and sends me her column for the local paper. When I receive it, I shall post it here. I hope you enjoy reading what she has to write. Even if you live in the most cosmopolitan of places, I bet you'll empathize with most everything.